Shirts vs Skins
by JMK758
Summary: My 75th Story had to be unique. Tony DiNozzo must put his balls where he bat is when the women of NCIS get fed up with his boasting and issue the Challenge of the Sexes.
1. Warm Up

Shirts versus Skins  
By JMK758  
Prologue

It was supposed to be a mid-summer diversion, a friendly game of baseball, until a thoughtless remark turned it into so much more. When the white sign went up on the lounge bulletin board, it hung unnoticed for over a day until the stylized bat and ball at the top corners of the announcement caught Tony DiNozzo's attention. "Hey, McShortstop," he called to his partner, "look at this."

Tim McGee, already near the exit and intent upon the elevator beyond, didn't allow his thoughts at this new epithet to reach his face. He's long past the point where any of DiNozzo's friendly perversions of his name have any effect upon him. They usually telegraph something about the in-this-case-non-conversation the Agent wants to draw him into and there's no point in protesting, for the man can come up with ten new names in the time it takes him to object to the first one.

"What is it, Tony?" He'd rather have spent the last fifteen minutes of his hour break dropping in on his wife in her fourth floor office but there was no real way out of this – other than rudely ignoring the call.

"Baseball game this Saturday, noon on the Recreation Field."

"So? Today's only Tuesday." 'And the day Shav's here rather than at Saint Mary's and you're cutting into my time.'

"So? SO? So, the chance to get out, the great outdoors, fresh air, the challenge of warriors."

"Tony, it's a baseball game and there's only one sign-in, Reznik from Fraud." He hated pointing out the obvious almost as much as he hated DiNozzo's bouts of enthusiasm.

"Well, now it has two," he said as, with a flourish, he drew a pen and added his name to the list, choosing 'right handed' and 'third base' for himself. Reznik had not chosen a position - or even a hand.

"Congratulations, now only sixteen more to go in three days."

"I don't care. Don't you know, McBatboy, that if you sign it they will come? Field of Dreams, Crucible of Challenge – go ahead, Probambino, mark your Abner Doubleday right there."

"I will not."

"Chicken. What am I saying, anyway?" he asked expansively, attracting the attention of all the agents in the lounge, hoping to embarrass his partner into signing up. "You'd only wind up as the water boy."

"_Water boy_? I'll have you know–"

"This is a test of talent, Gladiator skill and the determination to win. It takes heart, it takes soul; baseball is for real_ men_."

"_Excuse_ me?" That offended tone came from behind them, and when they turned it was to Special Agent Lisa DuBois seated on one of the cushioned chairs, a magazine on her lap. "Did you just say baseball is for 'real men'?"

"You bet. Not DuBois, this is for men like DiMaggio and DiNozzo."

"HA! I could dust the field with you any day."

"We're not talking softball, my friend; we're talking hardball – the real thing."

DuBois tossed the magazine off her lap. "I don't play with soft balls. _Real_ women go for hard balls." That elicited a gaggle of laughter from most of the now-quite-attentive women in the room.

"Sorry, but that 'League of Their Own' stuff was only a movie, though Geena Davis did know how to fill out a uniform. Madonna too."

DuBois was out of her seat in an instant. Having eaten the bait meant for McGee, she stalked across the room and snatched DiNozzo's pen from his hand. "Out of the way, water boy, I'll show you how the game is played."

By the time she'd signed her own name, 'right handed' and 'center field', there were four more women lined up behind her. She gave DiNozzo's pen to her partner Janet Levy and turned to face DiNozzo across the line. "We'll show you a 'League of our own'."

"You got it, lady; the men against the girls."

That halted the line between them and all smiles vanished. "That was your last chance," Levy declared as Agent Tina Larsen took up the sword - or rather the mightier pen. "Now it's 'to the death'."

"So it's 'Shirts versus Skins'," DiNozzo announced, relishing the prospect as Larsen, one of his earlier relished fantasies, turned his pen over to Peggy Uchitel. He watched her sign up, taking the moment for a glimpse. "We'll be 'shirts'."

Uchitel, finished signing as Catcher, turned to him and slapped the pen into his chest. "In your dreams, DiNozzo."

"We've got talents you'll never have," Tina Larsen declared.

"Well, McQueue," Tony said to Tim on the opposite side of the quickly shortening line, ignoring Larsen's tone, "you'd better get your name on there fast or it's going to be sixteen to two, with seven working against their own teammates."

"Serve you right, DiLoudmouth."

Chapter One  
Warm Up

Gibbs, DiNozzo, McGee, SSA Fred Higgins, Ducky, Palmer together with Ken Templeton and Patrick Larsen from Melanie Kelman's team wait in the dusty ground by home plate with other assorted agents. The sun is high, the air is dry and the challenge is awry. "Ten minutes, boss," McGee 'reports', checking his watch for the third time since noon but only speaking this once. He's particularly concerned; Shav had signed up, relishing a chance to play with him on this Saturday afternoon, and he can count on one hand the number of times he's known her to be late - since she was sixteen. The men scan the Navy Yard in every direction, finding no challengers.

"You think they chickened out?" DiNozzo asks, not believing it. Women who have been under fire in the field do not 'chicken out' on the diamond, no matter how horrible their forthcoming humiliation.

"They didn't chicken out, Tony," McGee, his favorite pigeon, says acerbically.

DiNozzo considers his retort for an instant, but the man's wife is a scheduled player and there are some lines friends - even tormentors and victims - don't cross. "No, McPitcher'sMound, they just forfeit; nothing dishonorable when facing a superior opponent."

McGee doesn't quite get all the way through that retort. "McPitcher'sMound?"

"Well, you _are _developing another bulge in your center field," DiNozzo says, pointing out the half-inch of increase under Tim's grey MIT tee shirt.

"Nonsense, Anthony," Ducky counters in his best 'defuse the tension' voice. "It just indicates Mr. McGee has married an excellent cook."

"Thank you, Ducky."

"I still think they're forfeiting," DiNozzo insists, checking his watch.

"Don't think so," Gibbs counters. Eyes on his watch, DiNozzo missed the approach of the troop transport bus that pulls onto the grass beside the dugout beyond third base. The huge white sign taped to the side reads 'ENKISS ANGELS' but while the A has the expected halo, the initial E is horned and the red S trails off into a spiked tail.

McGee can detect a familiar influence in the use of the 'Enkiss', and an equally familiar influence in its modification.

x

When the door wheezes open the men realize the surprises have only begun when the women alight from the bus, each bearing their gear. Sneakers and socks leave long, eye-riveting intervals to light pink or yellow or light blue, or in one case black, shorts cut high enough to be banned in most school gyms. The outer thighs are provocatively slit to within a handbreadth - a small hand's breadth - of elastic waistbands, and all the garments expend the absolute minimum of material to remain securely upon hips.

The short sleeved tops are little more; open necked and unbound by the draw strings, they're of matching colors to the 'shorts' and are undoubtedly cool for the summer day. Each frilly top is embroidered on the left side, the Agency name embroidered in contrasting colors, pink on blue and so forth; the S is preceded by a human eye and is quite cunningly placed so that the iris receives special 3D emphasis, which also makes it quite clear that, whether B, C or more, the women's assets are quite unencumbered by cups.

Ziva, clad in jeans and green power shirt, is the only surprising addition to this group. The woman had declared she would not come, having little time or patience for a game comprised mostly of inactivity, and though she's obviously changed her mind Tony regrets that she's distinctly out of uniform.

Abby, whose 'uniform' deviates only in color from her teammates, leads the group to third base, then leaves them behind and walks directly to Ducky, armed with a paper and a smirk. "Sorry we're late," she says, handing him the team line-up.

Ducky would have preferred to watch the game from the stands extending from home to beyond the corner bases or the bleachers that reach almost to the high outfield link fence, but both sides had unanimously drafted him for home plate Umpire, no one willing to waste even an instant in doubting the venerable man's integrity. The other three Umpire positions are filled by previously selected Marines and Sailors, who upon seeing the distaff team are particularly glad for having volunteered. Those who had unwisely declined the offer must get their views from the side stands and bleachers.

x

Gibbs hands Ducky the men's roster but it's the women Ducky is interested in; and unlike the other men he's not pleased by what he sees. "No, Ms. Sciuto, I think not."

"What's wrong?"

"Would you please call Agent Paulson over?" Abby calls to her team, several of whom are already stretching and limbering up for the upcoming contest. A blonde woman of medium height and clad in eye-riveting pink breaks off her exercise to join them, the reluctance on her face quite clear.

"Yes, Ducky?" Jean Paulson asks when she reaches the Captains and Umpires. From her tone she already knows why she's been singled out.

"I'm sorry, Agent Paulson, I cannot permit you to play. Your rotator cup is still not completely healed and you do favor your left side. A slide into base, or a collision, could damage it again."

"Then I won't slide." His expression doesn't change. "Oh, come on, Ducky, you said another week and I'll–"

"A week from now is not today. I'm sorry."

"As of now, Jean," Abby cuts in, "you're Second Base Umpire." She turns to the Sailor she's summarily displaced. "No hard feelings?"

Before he can answer, a Corpsman cuts in. "We'll switch around each inning."

"Thanks." He hadn't been at all happy to be relegated - now - to the stands. As passersby notice the challengers, and word begins to spread, those stands are already filling as the large bus departs.

x

Abby turns to Gibbs. "Any objection?"

"Nope." This is only a friendly game; he doesn't care if someone from the opposing team umpires.

"Good," Abby declares as Tony arrives to check on the start of the game, "we'll just limber up a bit more before we get started.

But DiNozzo has an outstanding issue. "We never did settle on which side is 'shirts' and which is 'skins'."

Abby smiles, grabs the hem of her black shirt and gets midway up her ribs when Gibbs' hands on hers stop her.

"We'll be 'skins'."

"Suit yourselves. Better anyhow, since I spent nearly seven hundred bucks getting these outfits ready in time." Her smirk doesn't fade as she heads back to her team, but the men notice a feature of her black short shorts that hadn't been turned to them before. An embroidered white palm print, fingers pointing down toward her bare legs, decorates each saucily swaying cheek.

Gibbs, assuring himself that Abby is the only one to modify her 'uniform', notes DiNozzo's attention on her retreating palms and gives him his first rapid succession double head strike.

DiNozzo turns. "What was that second one for?"

"Eyes."

"Then what was the first one for?" Gibbs' eyes give him clear notice of how dangerous the question is. He hadn't thought the 'skins' question to have been _that _unreasonable.

He turns his attention back to - it's almost impossible not to - the limbering and stretching exercises the women do in preparation for play. Though the widely spaced women face in no particular direction, their stretching consists of a great deal of low bends, clasped hands held high behind them; high kicks Rockettes might consider challenging, long, sinuous reaches or, in several cases, feet spread very widely apart, hands reaching down to press palms flat into the grass.

The field is utterly silent.

x

McGee strolls over to the women but watches his wife, third from the end past Abby and Director Shepherd, focusing more on arm and body extensions appropriate to pitching. He approaches her, relieved to note that of all the women, Jennifer Shepherd included, Shav is the only one wearing a bra. She's clad in light pink that compliments her flame-red hair, but he also notices she's wearing make-up, lipstick, hardly what he expected for a ball game but he'll take it. A brief glance at the other women surprises him, for she's not alone in her preparations for the game. All the women look gorgeous ….

But he strives to keep his attention solely upon Shav, determinedly not seeing Michelle Palmer limbering up five feet to his right with some eye catching stretches, nor to see Lisa DuBois or Janet Levy or Melanie Kelman or Tina Larsen or...

"Well, this is quite a new look," he says, trying to sound casual and not like how her outfit is making him feel. He puts his arms around her, draws her close.

"For being out in public, you mean." Siobhan touches the open neck of the shirt, and the tiny gold cross on the thin chain. After so many years a closed neckline, and the white wrap-about collar, are more natural to her - in public. "Abby insisted. She's got a whole secret strategy worked out in her head that I'm not supposed to tell you about."

He looks at the near dozen women stretching on either side of them and warming up ... the men. "I think I've figured it out."

"I knew you would. You're a born detective."

"Under cover," he tells her broadly, his touch on her back drawing her into a kiss. It's over too soon, but for him an hour is too soon. He glances very briefly at the other women, but only briefly; the woman in his arms can make him forget an entire planet. "But you," he's had his eyes off her quite long enough, all of three seconds. "_Very _sexy."

She leans back. "You think this is sexy?"

His eyes cuddle her body, stroking down her pink, short sleeved top, the material light enough to flutter in the slight breeze. He's seen, but can't now, the matching shorts, so he lets her loose, enough so he can take her in, their hands clasped. The shorts are cut so high they barely have a hem and his eyes stroke her long, bare legs. He takes his time climbing back up, pausing at the so-suggestive eye in the embroidered NC*S, the iris still poked to captivating 3D, proving her bra isn't all that ... "Oh, yeah."

"Good, I was hoping I could hold your attention today."

He laughs; holding his attention is something she's never had to worry about. "You've always got me."

"Good." She releases his hands, adjusts her top, the open-laced neckline giving him a quick flash or two, but she's still glad she wore a bra. She doesn't want to give anyone else the treats she'll give her husband. "Still, it's not bad, maybe I'm thinking of changing my style, lighten up a bit. Abby was right. You know, Nil sé'n lá."

"What?" The 'nil shen law' interrupted his visual exploration of her charms, forces him to use his brain for thinking. She's been teaching him Gaelic for some time, mostly with the intent that they could have private conversations even in Headquarters, but she hasn't taught him this.

"Well, the Latin is 'Carpe diem', either way 'seize the day' and that's exactly what I've decided to do." She giggles when he tugs her back into the hug. "You've decided to seize something too."

"Oh, yeah."

"I've married a satyr."

"Satyrs chased nymphs."

"Is that what you think of me?"

He kisses her quite thoroughly. "_Yeah_."

She considers for a moment. "I can live with that. With you. You know," she declares as though she's just decided it, "Abby's right, I'm a married woman and it's time I learned to relax. I don't have to be _so _so ultra concerned about my reputation anymore. You've made an honest woman out of me," she grins at the irony, her emerald eyes sparkling, "and I don't have to be worried all the time about what people will say. I can go out without the collar and learn to relax, not always be so..." she tugs the strings, closes the top firmly, "...uptight."

He pulls the material apart, spreads it so it sets naturally; not exposed but very attractive. "I love it when you're loose."

"No, a chuisle," she smiles sensually, "you love it when I'm _tight_."

x

He nearly chokes, looks around quickly to make sure no one heard this outrageous revelation, but the men are distant, gathered around home plate and the closest one to them is Michelle, five feet away, working long, sensuous stretches, and beyond her is Lisa DuBois, reaching high, her lithe body straining in a hip-wiggling - he looks away from her quickly – to his left now but straight down a deep-bending Jennifer Shepherd's shirt! She always wears suits, but impressive as she is he never _dared _imagine for fear of the image sticking in his head. He'd seen her once in a stunning ball gown she'd worn some time ago for the Marine Corps dinner but he never _dared _imagine more.

He rips his eyes off her before she might look up and notice him noticing and his eyes smack Abby's bottom just where those two white embroidered palms–

"Timmy?"

His attention snaps back to his wife so quickly he nearly suffers cognitive whiplash. "_Huh_?"

"It's okay to look."

"_I wasn't looking_!"

"I know." She kisses him, holds him tighter, or is it more firmly? "You can look, everybody else is, but no touching."

"Never." The look she gives him suggests that she knows him too well, and he's not entirely sure what she's thinking. He glances away for a second but his eyes leap right down Tina Larsen's blouse as she bends low. Returning his eyes to the safety of Siobhan's emerald ones, he has to ask: "Did they have to come up with that?"

"Up with what?" she asks innocently.

"That," he says, looking at the women surrounding them. Only Ziva, standing near the knot of women, is out of uniform in her jeans and green shirt. "At least you're wearing a bra."

"Well, Cara, you know what they say: 'tachraidh na daoine, ach cha tachair na cnuic'."

This, completely unfamiliar, halts him for a moment. "They say that, do they?"

"Uh huh," she assures him, solemnity broken by a teasing smile.

"I've never said it. What do they say in _America_?"

"'Men will meet, but the hills will not'."

"Oh." He thinks it over. Thinks it over longer. "What does that _mean_?"

"It _means_, a mhuirnin, that–" Jimmy suddenly bursts past them; he grabs Michelle's arm tightly and yanks so hard that, bent low, she's pulled off her feet and stumbles after him. "Oh, oh."

x

Jimmy drags his wife, who can barely stay on her feet, past the other limbering women who stop at the distraction. He yanks her well beyond third base before she recovers her balance and he drags her another twenty feet before he stops, his face scarlet with rage.

"What are you doing?" he demands, his words too low to be heard beyond the base and neither of them caring that activity throughout the infield has halted.

"Stretching," she nearly spits the word up at him, outraged by this almost brutal treatment. His grip on her arm hurts worse now than when he was pulling her and she yanks away.

"I can _see _that!" His voice makes up in bite what it lacks in volume. "So can every man on this field!"

"So what? Not like I'm alone." She looks back at the other similarly attired women beyond third. All of them stare at the pair. The men clustered near home had been enjoying the warm up, now they too stare with equal intensity.

"I don't care about that," he grates, yanks her eyes back to his rage. "You're my wife and I care about you traipsing about looking like … like…"

"Like _what_?" She can barely keep her words low.

"Like a streetwalker _slut_!"

Eyes flaring, fists suddenly clenched at her sides, she can't believe he said that and steps closer, gives him a single chance to retract it. "_What _did you say I look like?"

"Like a $10 _whore_!"

Enraged, Michelle turns her back on him, spreads her feet as wide as she can and bends low on stiff legs, her palms upon the grass, her back curved to raise her hips and accentuate her challenge.

Jimmy, feeling left only with choices from striking her ass to escalating the scene, turns sharply and crosses the field, face scarlet and body stiff, every motion sharp as he storms down into the first base dugout and crashes onto the long seat.

Tim starts to take a step toward that enclave when his wife's hand on his elbow halts him. He turns back to her.

"A chuisle, a word of advice?" He nods, feeling he needs some after that astonishing, uncharacteristic display. "Don't come between a wife and a husband unless you must." She shakes her head, having heard - from him - too many stories. "It never _can _end well."


	2. Play Ball

Chapter Two  
Play Ball

Ducky waves Abby closer; she's touched by Tina Larsen and has to break away from staring, disconcerted, at Michelle far out beyond third base, but she joins the men at home plate.

"Well," Ducky says to the team Captains and his crew, more for the distracting effect of something to say, "shall we?" He hides his wince, wishing for something to say other than something so banal. He's shocked and appalled by his Deputy's behavior and means to discuss it with him at a more appropriate - and private - time. He can see Michelle returning along the third base line to the other women and from over a hundred feet away he can see she's shaking. "As the concept of 'home' and 'visitor' teams is somewhat moot, who shall be first up?"

"Ladies first," Gibbs declares, but Abby raises her hands.

"Oh, no, you first. We insist."

"Very well," Ducky says and, at a prearranged signal, every loudspeaker on the tremendous Navy Yard sounds out with an orchestral rendition of the National Anthem, effectively bringing activity throughout several square miles to a halt. Not one percent of the personnel hearing this are aware that the rendition signals the beginning of the 'Clash of the Titans', or more appropriately, of the Titans and Titanesses.

Jimmy Palmer having unwittingly made the selection for them, the men doff their shirts as they assemble in the first base dugout while the women assume their places on the field. Several Agents consider approaching the Deputy ME about that display beyond third base but he's so obviously cooking in scarlet fury that speaking to him now would accomplish worse than nothing. They collectively decide it's better to let him cool down while they turn their attentions to the far more delightful sights ranged upon the field before them.

Peggy Uchitel, whose shirt is considerably challenged by more than impressive assets not even the loosely fitting chest protector can obscure, takes command of the plate before a black masked Ducky while Siobhan McGee assumes the mound. The women immediately start a series of warm-up throws, getting the feel for the diamond.

Michelle Palmer, Abby Sciuto and Jennifer Shepherd cover the bases, their uniforms covering staggeringly little while blonde Tina Larsen, auburn tressed Lisa DuBois and chestnut-brunette Melanie Kelman range right to left field positions and Janet Levy takes shortstop, her unbound black hair fluttering in the breeze.

"McGee, you're up," Gibbs, still wearing his USMC tee shirt, directs.

"I'd ask if you remembered your sun block," Tony quips, noting his partner's pale skin even in mid-July as Tim grabs a bat and looks for a comfortable helmet, "except that you're not going to be out there long enough to need it."

"You'd better hope that I am," Tim counters, turning from the man who's boasting had gotten them into this to view the pale pink or light blue or yellow clad women - not to forget Abby's black – who range the field. All the women wear quite a bit less than he'd ever seen or reasonably allowed himself to hope for - with the exception of Shav - but only Abby can wear the regulation NCIS ball cap. Where she managed - on three days' notice - to get NCIS caps in pink with blue lettering, yellow with black lettering and pale blue with pink he has no idea.

The women's short shorts with side slits, the short sleeved tops with drawstrings that remain undrawn, the NC beside the left breast but the I being substituted with a human eye - how _did _they conspire to get the iris directly over unbrassiered...? – and the S ending in a spiked devil tail–

"Well, get out there," Tony urges. "They're not goddesses."

"Speak for yourself, Tony." Though he steps out onto the field, feeling the sun's rays from straight above spear his bare chest and back, he determines to see no one other than his light pink clad wife on the mound. A glance behind him at the still fuming Jimmy Palmer makes him determine to keep Michelle, at first base, invisible.

x

At the plate he marks his reach with the bat end to either side of the plate ... focuses his attention on his wife on the mound ... their eyes meet...

"Watch yourself," Peggy Uchitel, to his left, warns him. "She's about to give you a third ball with her first pitch."

He turns to look down at her. The woman _couldn't _be implying that - _whoosh thaap._

"Strike one," Ducky calls. Could there be a smile on that masked face?

"I wasn't ready!"

"Are you ready now, Mister McGee?"

He turns back to the mound, frowns at Shav's grin, sets his feet, holds the bat firmly. "Yes."

"Good," Uchitel says from almost behind him, "because _I _hear you didn't spend nearly enough time warming up last night with your bat in her dugout."

He turns, lowering the wood to confront the outrageous woman. "Now _just _a min–" _whoosh thaap_

"Strike two."

Tim turns an outraged face back to his entirely-too-pleased wife, determined now to ignore the woman behind him, to focus only on Shav. She's grinning too broadly; he'll wipe that smile away. He kicks a deep furrow into the dirt, ready to push off, not minding that tiny fragments cover Uchitel's sneakers. He sees Shav set up in her distinctive style for a fast ball and flashes back to last year at the County Fair and the first time he learned she could pitch. She'd faked him out at the 'Knock the Bottles' tent with two full-body 'girlie throws', got him to bet fifty dollars she couldn't win, then blew the weighted targets away.

Since then he's learned her style, as he's memorized everything about her. She'll never fool him like that again.

He grips the bat tightly, ready to knock her fast ball out of the park. "Hey, Tim..."

He won't hear it. 'Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me _three _times...'

Shav winds up in her familiar manner - she always telegraphs her fastball because she can't stop relying so heavily on power - and midway through she steps forward and lobs a slow, gentle underhand that'll take a second longer than he expects to smoothly arc and fall toward the plate.

x

Caught between swing, hesitate and swing, he barely tips the underside of the ball but it's fair; he drops the bat and runs. The ball arcs higher on its slow return, passes six inches above Shav's jump and Abby Sciuto and Janet Levy, both caught unprepared by the infield ball, don't make it in time before the ball hits ten feet behind the mound. Abby fields the bounce barehanded and fires to Michelle who reaches in, her toe back on the bag, but she snags it a tenth second too late.

Tim returns to the base he'd overshot in his sprint to the cheers of a growing crowd on the stands and bleachers and of his team mates at the first base dugout. He grins compliment together with semi-smug victory to Shav while she smiles her own compliment at his success. The words they then exchange are silent; expressions and eyes maintain an utterly private conversation.

x

As Fred Higgins comes to the plate Tim glances at Michelle Palmer in her gaze-snaring pink 'uniform' enhanced in cap and lettering in blue before remembering Jimmy beyond her and taking a four foot lead out of her reach. He holds his attention focused on Abby Sciuto at second rather than his partner, all the while imagining he can feel daggers fly from the dugout into his back.

Abby, noticing McGee's attention, turns slightly away from him, her black shorts enhanced with that pair of embroidered white palms reaching down on her cheeks. She wiggles provocatively and he clenches his eyes shut. 'Is there _nowhere _I can look?' he appeals silently.

He looks to his right to the outfield. Tina Larsen, Lisa DuBois and Melanie Kelman cover right, center and left fields, two light blues sandwiching a light pink. Blonde Tina Larsen, who he'd dated several times in the days when Kate was still with the team, bends low, puckers and blows him a kiss, rises and accentuates the offer with a provocative wiggle.

He turns from her, clenching his eyes tightly to dispel the image. He'd been intimate with Tina – and with Abby – in the long-distant past – the pre-reunion with Shav days.

He opens his eyes in the only safe direction, the mound. Shav is facing him, hands upon her shapely hips, glaring in intense irritation. Her glove is on her left hand, but in her right she still holds the ball and her manner clearly says she hasn't _bothered _to throw him out but she _has _caught him flirting with the blonde beauty in right field - and with Abby at second - right in front of her and he's going to _pay _for his indiscretion. Later.

He shrugs, trying to communicate 'I didn't' with her by gesture and silent mouthing but she turns from him with a snap.

He turns back to Michelle, who's waiting with both feet on the bag and arms folded across her chest. "Is there any way a spell could get me out of this game?"

"Sorry, _Agent _McGee," she bites, her voice colder than the Antarctic in a midnight blizzard, "Wicca is a feminine-based faith; we have no tolerance for men who _cheat_."

x

Fred Higgins, when attention finally returns to him, sets up for his own turn. "Careful," Uchitel advises. "She's not going to like giving up that hit."

"Too bad. She's going to be giving up a lot more before this game's through."

"Care to put a bet on that?"

"I'd never take your money."

"Who was talking about money?" He glances back to her. "You willing to put your bat where your balls are?" _whoosh thaap_

"Strike one."

x

Realizing she's playing exactly the distraction game she had with McGee, Higgins determinedly attempts to ignore the crouched woman and her far-too-generous and distracting views reminiscent of double-D mountains rising majestically over a lush valley. Nevertheless, he goes down on a 2 - 3 count under Uchitel's merciless heckling.

Moments later Gibbs exits the dugout, bat in hand but grey USMC tee shirt still on his torso.

"Hey, Jethro," Jennifer Shepherd calls from third, "you forget it's shirts versus skins?"

"Yeah, Gibbs," Abby calls in from second, "you coming over to our side?"

Gibbs stops but his glare has no effect upon either of them. Puffing out his chest, he sets the bat down against his right hip, reaches across to his left, grabs the shirt and rips it up, over and off and tosses it to Watson, the first base coach. The air is instantly filled with raucous wolf whistles, some of them ear-piercing; cat calls and one full-blown lioness roar. He turns from his trek to the plate to find the source of that but the entire field is filled with angelic innocence.

Gibbs gives Uchitel a sharp glance to warn her against heckling. Squatting low beside him, she shifts her shoulders forward, pushing the too loose chest protector forward and making the unlaced top gap further as she purses her lips in a silent kiss. Gibbs turns toward the mound, ignores the woman behind him and watches Siobhan's eyes. As a priest with a reputation and other professional standards to carefully uphold, she can't be blatant even while bent to set up her position and receive signals from the catcher. She shakes her head, refusing in turn a total of sixteen signals - he knows they have nowhere near that number of pitches - before her eyes meet Gibbs'. She grins and straightens.

There's some question if the crack or the ball moves faster as the white sphere rockets between left and center field as McGee and Gibbs launch themselves about the diamond. McGee, charging at breakneck speed, is waved home by Browning coaching third to loud cheering while Gibbs decelerates into third with a stand-up triple a half-second before Shepherd snares the ball. When he grins at her she slaps his bare chest lightly with the gloved ball. "Next time, Jethro."

"Not gonna happen," he assures her. His eyes dip through her gap, but with her bare hand she presses the thin, overburdened material against her chest.

"Neither is that."

McGee, meantime, jogs to the first base dugout with a jaunty salute/wave as he passes the mound.

But McGee's run is destined to be the only one in the inning as Lou Reznik goes down in three swings. Uchitel thanks him for the cooling breeze.

x

Sides switch; Michelle trades her glove for a bat and takes her place before Ken Templeton and Ducky to face down Fred Higgins. She takes some slow practice swings, puts a great deal of body language into the motions, her attention more on Jimmy at second. The more anger that clouds his features, the more sensual her 'practice swings' become.

"Mrs. Palmer..." Ducky's cautioning tone stops her and she goes into a deep crouch. He's not sure what her intent with that display really is; the strategy of the distaff team is very obvious, but though Jimmy had behaved shockingly earlier, it's clear Michelle is not an innocent party.

The tight crouch is equally obvious; already the most petite of the contestants, her tightening serves to shrink the strike zone, though the slow movements of her pink covered derriere do little of legal benefit.

Both strategies appear effective, however, for the first two pitches just miss the chest/knee area before she suddenly squares into the third pitch and her bunt rolls only fifteen feet toward first. Templeton, caught by surprise, is late getting to it and Michelle, faster than anyone expects, blasts past Patrick Larsen with nearly a second to spare, celebrating her victory with ecstatic leaps before she returns to the bag.

x

Ducky, however, cannot miss that while most eyes follow her enthusiastic display, Jimmy in no way shares in the joy evidenced by his wife's bouncing victory. In fact, as she claims her place at the bag before Patrick Larsen, Ducky fancies he can read Jimmy's blood pressure from across the diamond.

Play resumes, much to Ducky's relief, when Jennifer takes her place. Though uniformed in light blue equally as eye-catching as her teammates, she indulges in none of the more flamboyant distractions. Like Siobhan McGee, she has a professional position that can't be compromised, though her natural assets require no aerobic enhancements to capture and firmly hold attention.

She looks out at the bare chested Fred Higgins but he's grinning at her, and in it she reads not a lascivious leer at her attire but the intent of a humiliating strike-out. Changing her mind, she gives him a slow wink that's half 'do your worst' and half 'remember who signs your paycheck'.

The first pitch is a clean strike, but she manages to drive the second up beside the third base line just past DiNozzo's reach, though it's intercepted by McGee at left field and returned to third before she can get beyond first base, advancing Michelle to second.

x

Michelle smiles up in greeting at her husband as they pause, each with one foot on the bag, but Jimmy's greeting is not a welcoming one. "What was with that display?"

"What display?" she asks, keeping her own voice as low as his.

"Those wiggles at home, that _bouncing _around at first. Everyone in the stands was following the bouncing boobs!"

"Hey, guys," Umpire Jean Paulson tries to cut in, "this is only a game," but neither Palmer pays attention.

"It's called 'working the opposition'," Michelle declares as she turns full on to him, her voice now no less driving.

"Knock it off!"

"Why?"

"Because not only are you dressed like a slut, you're _acting_ like one."

She comes off the bag so she can turn full on him, glares up from an inch away but grates through gritted teeth: "Take that back!"

x

Paulson isn't sure what to do. She doesn't want to throw one, or both, of them out of the game - as long as they keep their hands to themselves - but she's never known either of these lovers to ever say a cross word to each other, and now it seems that's all they can say.

"Chaplain McGee's the only one of you even wearing a bra, but are you even wearing panties?"

She closes that inch, only a millimeter separates them as she fires upward "Crotchless thong!"

Paulson, not sure how to even visualize such a garment, has had enough. She raises her hand - _both _of these 'lovers' are gone - when Abby's voice cuts through from the plate.

"Hey Palmers, you still in the game?"

Michelle turns to her, a beatific smile replacing the hateful mask. "Still in," she calls happily, taking several steps lead from the bag, not quite looking to everyone else like she's putting the distance between herself and her husband.

Paulson wonders if either Palmer is aware of how near a thing their ejection had been.

x

But as Higgins turns his attention to Abby, and she warms up with a sensuous and very distracting wiggle, he can just make out, on the tantalizing edge of perception, low, sustained bickering increasing in heat. He prepares himself again, the words having distracted his concentration, but the barely audible fire continues. Not so much fed up as concerned for the couple and deciding he needs to separate them, he turns quickly and throws the ball to Jimmy. Michelle, surprised, succumbs to his longer reach and is tagged out.

Rather than leaving, Michelle can hear only the cheers from the stands and bleachers and can see only the grin on her husband's face. She's not grinning, standing stiffly, fists clenched at her sides.

"One word, Palmer," Paulson warns, "and _I'm _throwing you out."

They turn to her, as if surprised by her sudden materialization. "Which one?" Jimmy asks.

"_Both _of you! So far as I'm concerned, these dugouts aren't far enough apart for you two."

Before things can get further out of control Michelle turns sharply and stalks toward the third base dugout. She slams down onto the bench, looks at no one and no one approaches her, but each woman in the dugout wonders the same thing; what brought all this on and was this afternoon of fun, strategy and challenge really such a good idea?

Siobhan, watching the motionless woman from the other end of the long bench, reconsiders her previous advice to her own husband.


	3. New Rules

Chapter Three  
New Rules

Abby, determined to keep the game going on its previously delightful level, sets herself, digs the furrow under her right foot a little deeper, sets herself again, bat high and at the ready and, as Higgins starts his windup, hollers "TIME!"

Higgins is too far into his pitch, can't halt and nearly stumbles coming out, the ball bouncing into the batter's box.

"Abby," Ducky reproves, "you cannot call for time when the pitcher is already in his windup."

"Oops, sorry, I didn't know. _Sorry_," she calls as Templeton returns the ball to the mound. None of the men believe it was an act of ignorance, but Abby's usually affectionate nature gains her some margin.

She takes a step forward rather than toward the side, turns to face Templeton and bends low, right foot extended before her. She unties her sneaker laces, 'oblivious' to the view she gives the agent down her unlaced, forward falling top. At the same time, she's giving an 'unaware' view to Higgins of her short and quite tightened black shorts and the two white embroidered handprints.

As she ties the laces, her hips and shoulders wiggle in time to her movements, giving shifting views in each direction. She finishes and slowly straightens, hands stroking sensually up her bare leg as though putting on lotion from sock to very high shorts. She extends her other foot.

x

"Abby," Ducky's tone is especially firm. Half bent over, she looks up at him. "Time is up."

"Come on, Ducky, you don't want me to slip and fall, do you?" She indicates these laces, which are as tight and secure as the others, both before and after their adjustment. Ducky raises his black mask and Abby smiles, observing that "Gibbs has been giving you lessons."

"I was giving Master classes while he was in short pants."

He lowers the mask and Abby turns and hefts the bat - but not without an enticing wiggle of her hips. She winks at Jenny Shepherd taking her lead at first, not sure if the look she gets from the woman is one of approval at her antics.

The first ball whizzes by so fast she's sure she hears the _thock _into Templeton's glove before the blur registers on her optic nerves. Stretching high, eyes closed, bat lowered behind her, she pictures in her mind a snake charmer's lithesome partner, her body moving to the phantom notes.

"Abby," Ducky's firm tone cuts through the darkness.

"Anybody tell you you're no fun?" she asks, neither opening her eyes nor halting her body.

"Never."

She stops, smiles at the man, sets herself and hefts the bat, puckering a very slow kiss to Higgins. She manages a very solid contact with the ball and drops the bat, chases Shepherd around the diamond, revels in the cheers of the 'fans' on the stands and her own team. She takes first wide, arcs around to second, sees Jennifer pass DiNozzo and sprint for home to deafening cheers from the stands, bleachers and screams from the dugout. Her attention on the cheers, she doesn't hear or see Ziva, coaching beyond third, yelling and motioning for her to hold. She's forty feet past second when the ball slaps into Tony's glove and it takes her seven more feet to skid to a halt.

She turns, Jimmy is already closing on her, Caruso at short moving to cover second and she looks forward. DiNozzo, with the ball, waits for her five feet from the bag. Caught in an inevitable rundown, Abby straightens, sighs heavily and walks to DiNozzo.

Before he can tag her, however, she takes hold of his forearm, holds his arm aside and continues into a hug - and a kiss.

She hugs the surprised man with her right arm, holds him close to escalating cheers as she kisses him to the delighted roar of the spectators.

The kiss goes on to escalating volume of appreciation and, with all her strength, she shoves DiNozzo aside, leaps and nails the bag like a gymnast dismounting off the parallel bars, back arched and hands high in triumph as the cheers reach a crescendo.

She turns, about to take her bows toward the diamond, but Tony stares at her in hurt outrage.

"Foul!" he calls.

x

The cry assembles all four umpires plus Gibbs from center field as the men's team Captain; no one can come out from the women's side as Abby _is _Captain, and Tony presses his case that Abby cheated.

However, "I'm sorry, Anthony," Ducky tells him after consultation with his crew and due consideration - they're sure that sometime in his long and comprehensive life he'd studied the rules with typical assiduity - "so far as I know there is no Major, or even Minor League rule that forbids this."

He tries to imagine a Washington Nationals player using the tactic and instantly jettisons the image. "Well, there oughtta be."

The head Umpire having made his ruling; play resumes, but even as the umpires take their places, Ducky collects the ball, and Gibbs departs, Abby turns to DiNozzo. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't answer.

She opens her arms invitingly. "Forgive me?" He says nothing. She steps closer, spreads her arms wider. "Please?"

This time he enjoys a legitimate hug. "I can't stay mad at you, Abs." He slaps one of the embroidered palms with his glove. "You're out, by the way."

She pats his cheek. "You've gotta get _in _before you can get out," she tells him, stepping on the bag, enjoying his flustered expression. 'For the first time,' she thinks, 'a woman's given him a come-on that leaves him speechless.'

x

Tony, trying to break his mind from the epic movie he's trapped in, forces himself to focus on Melanie Kelman leaving the dugout, bat in hand. "Well, the odds are more even this time," he calls and his words and tone halt the supervisor.

"What do you mean?"

"This isn't like when you and Joswig won that hundred off me. You may be the math wiz of this whole millennium, but this time not only do you have to figure velocity, wind shear, ball density, rotation and all those angles and vectors - you actually have to _hit _the ball."

She grins. "Watch me."

"Oh, I will," he promises, looking straight through her brief clothes.

Ignoring the tone and the x-ray leer, Melanie advances to the plate and takes a left-handed position to Templeton's minor surprise; his boss is right handed. She doesn't move, calmly noting the American flag flapping prominently atop the pole past the wire gate and beyond the end of first base line. Higgins sets, winds up and puts a curve ball through the middle of the strike zone. Ducky dutifully calls the play but Melanie reverses her grip on the bat, moves over to a right-hand stance, and glances again at the distant flag. The breeze coming from behind her is stronger and the flag, unprotected by the wide building two hundred feet behind her, is now forced straight out. She watches her counterpart Team Leader put a slider into Templeton's glove.

"Err, boss?" Templeton ventures as he throws the ball back and Kelman switches again to the left side.

"Yes, Ken?"

"The object is kind of to swing at the ball."

"Is it? You mean like this?" She swings late, connects enough to drive the ball well behind DiNozzo and into a Sailor's hands.

x

"Um, not quite," Ken says uncomfortably as she switches again to right and he sends a new ball out to the mound.

Melanie checks her counterpart, the flag now snapping sharply toward the Anacostia, and when the ball returns in a classic screwball it leaves on the sonic wave of a solid _crack_. It rockets high and far to the roar of the crowd, further, further, sails over the far fence with two feet to spare. Melanie burst out of the box only a second before Abby, already running flat out, blasts across the plate while Steve Brown in right jogs around the fence to retrieve the ball which bounces away, not finished its retreat after the unkind sendoff. Melanie meets Abby at the plate for some jumping extra-high fives before she turns to Kenneth.

"Like that?"

"Yeah," he says, watching the number change on the scoreboard from 1 to 3. "Something like that."

Heading back to the dugout with Abby to meet her cheering teammates assembled on the top step, Melanie glances back to grin at DiNozzo. If she were closer, she'd advise him very sweetly about the benefits of studying mathematics – and of being observant.

Janet Levy is up next and drives the count to 3 and 2 with four additional foul balls before a line drive straight to Caruso at Short ends the first inning with a score of 1 - 3.

x

Abby takes this opportunity as the men come off the field and her girls gather their equipment to make a change, substitutes Janet Levy to left field and brings Kelman, with her slightly faster reflexes and her ability to instantly calculate vectors and speed, in to cover the shortstop position.

The women are quite happy with their early lead and, gloves and caps on, prepare to take the field when Michelle, blue lettered pink cap on head and glove in hand, turns from the bench and nearly collides with her towering, red-faced husband.

"You've gone _too far_!" he blasts her, the force halting everyone in the dugout. No one had even noticed his entrance into 'women's territory'.

"What?" she exclaims, surprised by the broiling accusation. She can't step back, her legs are already pressed to the wooden seat.

"You _cheated_!"

Surprise surrenders to astonishment so deep she can't defend against his fury. "What do you–?"

"You _ensorcelled _that ball!"

She's outraged. The rules - has he any _idea _what he's saying? "I did _not_!"

"I saw you! I watched you with your–" he gestures in a vaguely mystical manner as a stage magician would.

"I was just hoping it would go, not _doing_ it! I don't do tha–"

"You cheated! And on a _baseball_ game. How can you sink so low, to cheat on so meaningless a–?"

"I did _not_!" Fire gives way to volcanic fury. "How _dare _you say I'd use magic to affect a game?"

None of the women are certain how to defuse this or if they should intervene. Abby's about to step in but Siobhan, knowing how a third person can escalate a lover's quarrel out of control, restrains her even as a moment flashes through her mind - the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just a few months ago: 'Will you who witness these vows do all within your power to uphold these persons in their marriage?' she had asked.

So many people had said 'we will'. So many.

x

"Bad enough you're traipsing around like a slut and acting like a _whore_–" his proximity unbalances Michelle and she lands on her rump on the seat, huddled over, face buried in her hands as the enraged man towers over her, "but now you completely dishonor yourself–"

"You stupid _Fuck_," she yells into her hands. "How _dare _you accuse–?"

"Don't you–!"

Siobhan is between them, no easy task in the tight space but she manages to half-block him. "James, would you please excuse us?" she says in as kindly a tone as she can manage; a much harder task than it should be. He's surprised; his expressive face shows that so clearly. Did he really believe they were alone, or that nearly a dozen women would allow...?

He turns, sees the crowd of outraged women nearly surrounding him, turns back to Michelle huddled on the bench and half-hidden behind Siobhan, but the priest puts iron into the 'request'. "James, will you _please _... _excuse _... us?"

x

He turns sharply, steps up and out of the dugout and stalks across the diamond. The women cast him out of their attention and turn to Michelle huddled on the bench, face buried in her hands, her body shaking violently as she weeps, silent but shattered.

Siobhan sits beside her, hand rubbing her shaking back. Abby takes her other side, draws her into a one-armed hug as the others gather close in a throng before the trio. "It'll be all right, honey," Siobhan assures her softly, rubbing her shaking back, wondering how she could possibly make this 'all right'.

Michelle looks up, leans back in Abby's hug and the women are astounded that her tears are accompanied by peals of delighted laughter.

x

"I _never _expected him to go that far!" she exclaims, unable to stop laughing so hard she can barely catch her breath. She looks to Siobhan, "I mean, that's like the - well, it's - using magic for - it's _way _unethical! If you did it, it'd get you _defrocked_."

"Michelle," Peggy is the first to get the words out, "what the ..." her glance flickers to Siobhan, "_F _is going on?"

"I'm sorry," she sobers, partially and with considerable effort. "We usually don't fight - I mean we'll fight - everybody fights - but he caught me way off guard starting a _fight _in public." She gives the word particular emphasis and manages to stop giggling enough to explain more rationally; but it's clear from the fragmented phrasing that she'd never considered the need to ever actually explain. "I mean it's a fight, but not a fight fight, it's a - well - sometimes when we're in the mood - _this _kind of fight, well, we'll fight until I've had enough."

"And then?" Siobhan asks cautiously, not sure she wants to know. The last fight she and Timmy ever had ... well, they've never actually _had _a fight.

"Then I give him a good hard smack in the face."

"And...?" Abby asks, her widening smile showing she's seeing ahead.

Michelle grins at her. "And then he chases me and wrestles me - he's too big and I can't _possibly _stand up to him - and he wrestles me over his lap, pulls off my panties and spanks me until I'm bright red – and then - well ..." she looks up, taking in all the women, her secret out even though she sees she hardly needs to explain, "I may have dinner standing up tonight, but his bat and balls are going into _my _dugout."

Siobhan is certain she's learned more than she wants to know, but when she looks at the surrounding women, she sees that while most feel the same way she does, two of them are giving the issue some serious thought.


	4. Summer Training

Chapter Four  
Summer Training

Play resumes with Tony DiNozzo, shirtless and excessively cocky, at bat and an agreement from the Palmers to save the balance of their game for home, or at the very least for the locker rooms. Siobhan, at the mound, is distinctly aware that it's the ill-considered words of this man who faces her from 60 feet away that have gotten her into this mad day. Though she'd volunteered the instant she learned that Timmy had, this game has already developed into more of an eye-opening time than it'd needed to be.

Not the least of this is because of her embarrassment at wearing the 'uniform' Abby devised with the aid of a Playboy catalogue and a devious mind. She's the only one who'd determined to use the protection of a bra, not about to indulge as her sisters have. In all fairness, she has to admit that they're more motivated, and possibly with good reason, to bring the men in their professional lives falling from the sky in flames, but this is an aspect of the contest she hadn't relished.

Granted it'd seemed like a fun idea at first, a chance to get outdoors and play with Timmy – a smile tugs at her lips at this unintentional double-entendre – but it'd been more fun for Siobhan when she imagined what the game would be. But her 'sisters' have turned this into something to prove and she couldn't scuttle it - she couldn't - so now she faces the instigator of this challenge and prays for forgiveness – for him.

He's standing before Peggy Uchitel and Ducky, preening like a rooster, his eyes delving down Peggy's gaping shirt at every opportunity and Siobhan takes a particular satisfaction in the screwball she puts low and almost outside, just catching the outer corner below his impotent swing.

x

DiNozzo is slightly surprised. Though he's watched the redhead for a full inning, he'd originally half-thought she'd be an underhand lobber, her repertoire limited to the 'change-up' she'd used to undermine the Probie.

Then again, there's quite a bit to be impressed with about this flame-haired woman, and Abby's choice of uniforms displays that to its best advantage. He rather wishes that she, like the other women, had dispensed with a bra – he'd love to have seen her form when she pitched without one – but she's even cautious of the view in her windup, her kick being quite modest indeed.

Normally he has a very strict rule about how he deals with married women ... and this married woman is married to his partner ... and she's a _priest_ ... but a man can't be blamed if he dreams, can he?

Besides, she voluntarily wears the uniform Abby devised to bring the men down - or is it up? - in flames. And though it's been very effectively doing its job, it's backfired spectacularly with the Palmers who probably won't talk to each other for a month. But in agreeing to wear this Playboy version of a 'uniform' the priest's not _completely _innocent, and if she can play the distraction game...

He swings the bat, flexes it around in an arc behind him, making his chest muscles ripple sharply. He takes a deep breath, expands his chest to his limit and gives her a more than suggestive leer, earning a deep frown instead.

x

"You like to live dangerously," Uchitel observes. He's already shot a full quiver of lecherous innuendo at her, not unexpected but impressive for two minutes, but when he turns his attention to a married woman she considers him to be flirting with doom rather than the woman.

"I keep my life full of life," he assures her, prepared for and just catching a slider enough to foul it off. Next time he'll have Mrs. McGee's measure. "Live hard, fight hard, love hard and have a beautiful ending." He gives both women a suggestive hip grind he considers as provocative as their clothing.

"Anthony," Ducky cautions, displeased by his display, but DiNozzo gives no attention to the man, all his focus on the woman 60 feet away from him. If she can distract him, he can distract her with equal impunity, throwing out his chest, flexing his arms and giving his hips a particularly expressive snap the Probie would probably kill him for if he were watching the plate rather than the mound.

'He's probably wondering,' Tony thinks as she sets up for the next pitch, 'why she looks so pissed.'

When the ball leaves Siobhan's hand it looks like a screwball, but in the last instant it curves right - really right - almost going behind "_Hieeeee_!"

Not quite right enough, though it's deflected considerably further as he stands stiff, the pain so sharp he's not sure he can move. He sees Siobhan standing wide-eyed, hands pressed to her mouth, her face ashen.

"You were right, Agent DiNozzo," Uchitel tells him gleefully. "'Have a beautiful ending'."

'It'll be purple for a month,' he considers, walking very carefully to first base, sure every woman's eyes are on him - and his blossoming wound. McGee distaff still looks utterly devastated, but a glance at the other one ... he does _not _like that grin.

x

Gibbs, feeling merciful, assigns Mark Clinton as pinch runner for his wounded teammate. For a team Captain, he hadn't been particularly attentive, conversing with Lou Reznik from left field until the agent's expression made him turn to the field, catching only the aftermath and having to depend upon Reznik's recounting to learn the reason therefore. Confident DiNozzo's not an innocent victim, he considers the priest's alternative to his 'wake-up call' a fortuitous variation.

DiNozzo, though temporarily relieved, doesn't seem inclined to sit down. Gibbs sends McGee, unlikely to come up soon if ever in this inning, in search of a bag of ice, considering himself well advised to keep DiNozzo distant from both McGees for the rest of the afternoon.

He already has one problem teammate to worry about, but the tall, lanky Palmer seems remarkably contented as he takes his place at the plate.

x

Jimmy sets up, but though he'd heard a lot about Special Agent Uchitel's taunting of the others, he's determined not to fall for it, focusing all his concentration on the redheaded pitcher in light pink ... in the very little ... she really looks... He turns from her, back to Uchitel almost behind him but he has an excellent ... very excellent ... very, _very _excellent view down her open shirt at her very lar–

He turns all the way away, looking down the third base line - at Director Shepherd as he's never - ever - _dared _- to imagine her.

He feels his face heat, certain the blush spreads across it like a shining beacon and he looks back to the mound. The priest is actually waiting for his attention, but he can't look at her. He's never ever _imagined _her like he's seeing her now, he's only ever seen her _not _dressed like a priest half a dozen times in the past near year and she's really a gorgeous– No! she's first a priest, then she's McGee's wife and his impure–

He looks beyond her – and Abby bends over, puts her hand to her lips and blows him a kiss!

'Oh God!' He turns to the only safe place on the entire field, and at first base 'Chelle is doing a slow, sensuous dance involving a lot of very familiar moves; her fingers tickle the printed eye on her left breast, the iris bulging in sharp relief, he can see from here that her...! Then her right hand strokes down her torso, down, _down_!

He clenches his eyes shut, violently hefts the bat, opens his eyes and Mrs. Rev. McGee is grinning at him. She winds up, releases, he swings as hard as he can–

x

He's actually amazed the hear a soft 'tock', feel a tiny vibration, and see the ball sail in a brief arc to bounce fair along the right line. He starts to run, actually chases it, knows it's hopeless. 'Chelle tosses down her glove to catch the bounce barehanded but he can't stop. Maybe she'll let him slip past? Yeah, _right_; after all the abuse he's heaped on her, he might as well just run in and take the tag.

All this goes by in less than one second. Michelle runs in, meets him mid way and leaps up, her bare legs clamp about his hips, her arms about his neck and she tags him with her lips!

Halted by the force of the collision, hearing the cheers and raucous cat calls from stands and bleachers, his hands automatically support her under her rump as she makes sure that he's very thoroughly tagged.

x

Gibbs, watching from the dugout virtually beside them, can only shake his head and wonder just _when _the game is going to resume.

"Between her and Abby," Reznik says beside him over the noise, "they're just rewritin' the whole friggin' rulebook."

x

Fortunately the tag ends soon enough that Gibbs doesn't have to go out and separate the combatants with a fire extinguisher, and Ken Templeton can have his turn at bat. Jimmy takes a seat on the end of the bench, looking more contented than anyone has the right to be.

Gibbs checks the scoreboard; the women lead 3 to 1 in the top of the second with one out and Mark Clinton running for DiNozzo on second beside Abby. Clinton could only legally claim one base on the play, ruled by Ducky as a 'Sacrifice', though truth be told he could have rounded the bases twice during that play. Palmer, seated at the end of the bench in world of his own, is too contented a sacrifice for Gibbs' taste.

This is going to be a long afternoon.

x

Ken Templeton glances down at Uchitel. "Nice to see they made up."

"You have no idea," she assures him and flutters the front of her shirt behind the loose chest protector. "God, this sun is hot."

Templeton's smile is more ironic; if she's starting with this ploy then she has no idea either - but for form's sake he looks, even if she has nothing that could interest him or his partner Larsen. They're each discreet, and it's good they work with Mel Kelman who keeps their discretion, but if Uchitel knew she'd probably lace up the shirt.

He focuses on Mrs. McGee out on the mound, but after seeing DiNozzo's fate he doesn't play the game the other agent had. He can read in her body language that she's still shaken by that incident; she'd given up Palmer's hit far too easily. He almost wishes he didn't have to undermine her confidence further, but also knows he has to strike quickly before she pitches enough strikes to get it back.

His first swing connects, a grounder just past the mound and toward Abby, but Mark Clinton, pinch running for DiNozzo, dives back to second and distracts her with a failed tag attempt, and that distraction slows her and allows Templeton to dash past Palmer an instant before the women can complete the play.

x

Abby jogs in from second to the mound. "Hey, you okay?" She won't actually say that Siobhan's sent three men to first with as many pitches.

Siobhan keeps her eyes on the batters' box as Patrick Larsen takes his place. "I'm fine. No prob–" She stops as Abby's hand on her arm pulls her back into the conversation.

"You know," Abby says kindly, "getting rid of your glasses doesn't help if you still can't look at someone and lie through your teeth." Before the Lasik treatments, the woman used to remove her aids, blinding herself if she were forced into an untruth, a defense all her close friends knew but never admitted that they did.

Siobhan finally looks her in the eyes, caught. "I didn't _mean _it!"

"Tony had it coming. He was being a bastard."

"I _know_! I didn't _want_ to hit him but he made me so mad. He knew he was embarrassing me; that's why he was doing it. And he just made me so _mad _- I didn't mean to hit him, I just ... hit him."

"How'd it make you feel?" This feels like something she thinks the priest should ask, or perhaps Ducky.

"Terrible. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Ashamed. I want to go apologize..."

"Aaaannnnd?"

Siobhan turns her humiliated gaze to her. "It felt good."

Abby slaps her shoulder. "You'll be fine. Now look," she points at the batter's box, "that's the only guy you have to care about. Forget DiNozzo, forget Palmer, forget Clinton, forget Templeton–"

"That's a lot of people to forget," she quips, but it comes out shaky.

"Never mind. Look," she points at Larsen. "Aim." She grabs Siobhan's throwing arm. "_Kill_!"

Seeing Larsen watching, undoubtedly wondering why she's pointing to him and what she's telling the pitcher, Abby blows him an elaborate kiss, turns, gives an even more elaborate wiggle and claps her hands with the white ones embroidered on her shorts before sauntering back to second.

Siobhan, seeing the man's grin, knows it's not what Abby thought it was, nor does the scientist know how thoroughly her ploy has been wasted. 'Abby, if only you knew...'

x

Pat Larsen, seeing McGee is finally ready for him after the pep talk - strategy had gone through the men's team almost as soon as they'd realized how rattled the priest was - he sets himself, digs into the furrow at his right foot, hefts the bet and glares at her, determined to make her kiss that 3 - 1 lead goodbye.

He reaches back with his left hand and slaps the same spot that'll give DiNozzo so many hours out of his chair, gratified to see McGee, who'd started to get her focus back, hesitate.

"Shouldn't flirt with a married woman," Uchitel quips, hoping to distract him as he'd tried with Siobhan. "It's a sin."

"Never," he assures her honestly and hefts the bat. Siobhan and Peggy go through signals, agree on a pitch and Larsen puckers a long kiss at her. It's enough to make the woman hesitate again, perhaps confuse her, certainly to throw off her rhythm. She must start again but Larsen is ready to blast anything she can finally throw out of the park.

The ball comes in, he puts everything into his swing, the loud crack says he's gotten everything behind this ball and he breaks out of the box – and the cheers are nearly drowned out by a piercing shriek.

x

He's heard such a scream before and it's always bad. He turns left and it's worse than he'd imagined for it's his own boss. Melanie Kelman clutches her crotch, falls to her knees as her scream dies. She doubles over, her head on the grass.

He veers off. Clinton and Templeton also abandon their courses. Already running flat-out, he and Ken reach their wounded Team Leader before either Abby or Jennifer can.

Melanie is curled in a kneeling fetal position, forehead pressed to the grass and apparently so hurt she can't make a sound.

"Mel, I'm _sorry_," Patrick exclaims, the crowd growing around them. Ken and Mark are on either side of her, Pat in front and together they try to help her to kneel up, lift her face from the grass.

"Let me through," Ducky's voice cuts in behind them. "Mister Palmer, my medical bag is in the Morgan. Gentlemen, please assist her to the ladies' dugout."

The men ease her up. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, lips drawn back from clenched teeth. She's not breathing. Her hands, bare and gloved, press protectively to her crotch. Then her body relaxes, her face smoothes and she pulls the ball from her glove and tags each of the shirtless men 'supporting' her.

"Out, out, out; one more than I need actually," she grins at them.

x

"Wha–?" "MEL!" Both her teammates are astonished, relieved and vastly annoyed.

"Remember," she admonishes her people as the others back away, chagrined, "never assume because it _looks_ like something that it really is." She raises the ball before them. "This could just as easily have been a .45."

"_Damn it_," Templeton's relief makes his outrage sharper, "this is a _baseball_ game, not a Training Exercise!"

She pats his cheek to take the sting out. "Everything's a Training Exercise."

"I thought you were hurt!" Larsen's glad she isn't and mad enough to wish she were – at least a little.

"Come on," she's actually disappointed at him, "did you _really _think I couldn't catch an 87 mile an hour ball at 76 feet?"

"Well anyway," Templeton growls, unwilling to admit he had so he focuses on the game, "the tags don't count. Play was suspended."

"I'm afraid, Agent Templeton," Ducky says, "that the incident transpired so rapidly no one actually called 'Time'. I fear I must rule it an 'Unassisted Triple Play'."

"You would," he gripes as he and Larsen stand up and help Melanie up, not that she needs it.

x

The surrounding men and women separate to their respective dugouts, most of them snickering, none particularly concerned yet about the 'four outs' in the top of the second. Still seven more innings to go. In moments Kelman, Templeton and Larsen are alone on the diamond.

"Okay," Templeton says, not quite a gripe, "you got us. Lesson learned. Just one thing: if ever guns are in play, _never _do this again."

"Deal." She turns to Larsen on her other side; he's still scowling. Granted there's friendship, but she's still the boss, and answers to neither of them in how or when she sets their Exercises; though she _did _trick them and had played upon their sympathies. But it's not anger she reads in that scowl, it's "What?"

"I'm just considering..." he looks her over in her brief attire, "...what the penalty is for taking a Supervisor over our knees for a well deserved lesson."

She reaches up, trails a finger down and across each of their cheeks and throats as she starts back toward the third base dugout. "More than you ever want to find out."

She puts an extra dimension of tease into her saucy walk. Part of it, as they watch her, is their camouflage, but there's so much more dimension; she's quite willing to publically aid their camouflage even as Team Leader, to carry on the spirit of the afternoon and give them 'something to look at'.

Ken and Pat look to one another, shrug and head back to the other shirtless men in the first base dugout.


	5. American vs National

Chapter Five  
American vs. National

Tina Larsen, her blonde hair accenting her yellow with blue NCIS cap, yellow top and shorts, saunters out to the plate as though she were approaching a stripper pole, revels in the cheers from the stands and bleachers at her overdone antics. Stopping beside Templeton, she lifts his cap off, bends and kisses the top of his head, replaces the cap, turns, cocks her hip and blows a saucy kiss at Higgins.

"If you're quite ready, Agent Larsen," Ducky says, trying not to make his tone as acerbic as he feels it should be.

"Oh! I'm sorry," she exclaims, takes a step toward him but he holds up a hand to halt her.

"If you please, I am firmly enforcing the 'no touch' rule." Seeing her fallen face, imagining she feels she's offended him, he hastens to correct: "I have no objection to the attentions of a lovely woman, but I prefer it to mean something, rather than it being used as a ploy."

"Of course, Ducky." But her soberness lasts only until she turns back to Higgins on the mound, and then her sensual ploys are back in full play. In fact, she plays it almost as a parody, posing and wiggling enough to distract the eagle at the top of the outfield right flagpole.

When the curveball goes wide, Tina takes a moment to hike up her shorts - from the hem - displaying a brief but very fetching glimpse of hip.

x

Higgins considers using the spot as a target but immediately abandons the thought. Not only would he never do such a thing intentionally, particularly to a partner of either sex, but DiNozzo, as the first batter at the top of the inning, was hit by McGee. He'd read her body language, it'd been a clear accident but if he does the same, though it won't be believed to be 'payback', Ducky could not avoid having to give a reprimand.

Besides, he doesn't mind the peek. Granted this afternoon is blowing every Sexual Harassment rule of the past forty years to Hell – and if the SECNAV gets wind of this game _all _their butts are going into slings – but this is still a friendly game.

So he'll enjoy the women's antics, all the while trying to blow them away – even though they do run the bases great.

x

He extends his hand, pointedly aims the ball directly at her saucy, wiggling butt - and she replies by bending slightly - a quite nice view - and sticking her tongue out at him.

'Okay, so it's war you want,' he thinks, holds back a grin, winds up and throws.

'_Figures _she could hit a curve, she's got enough of them,' he thinks, not too put out as he watches her sprint for first. 'And they work so well together.'

x

Lisa DuBois, clad in pink, comes out, but stops when she gets to the left side of the plate. "You know," she announces loudly, "it's really getting too hot out here for this." She hands her bat to Templeton and uses both hands to yank her shirt up and off her body.

Absolute silence stuffs the field, bleachers and stands - then thunderous cheers threaten to spark an earthquake. Ducky and Ken are up, Gibbs runs in from center field, sharply waves the other men to hold their stations and Abby and Jennifer charge out of the third base side as Higgins stalks in from the mound. When the outraged sextet surrounds the woman it's obvious she's wearing a bra; it's a demi-bra that just covers her areola by a micrometer and blends perfectly with her skin, and it's sheer enough to be almost see-through, but it _is _a bra.

"–This goes too far!" Higgins declares.

"–This is beyond all–" Ducky says, for the first time in years stricken speechless by the woman's audacity.

"–Special Agent DuBois," Jennifer says; her voice had blended with Higgins' and Ducky's, but she has more to say, "you will not play without your uniform."

"But it's not a uniform. Four different colors do not qualify as a 'uniform', and there's no rule in Major or Minor League that says I have to wear something that's not a team uniform."

They look to Ducky, but the man very reluctantly shakes his head.

Gibbs, however, doesn't care. From more than ten feet away she's topless. Distraction is one thing, but an NCIS Agent parading topless before hundreds of Servicemen... "Put it on."

To refuse is insubordination, twice guilty though Shepherd's hadn't been expressed as an order. She's accomplished her distraction anyway. She wiggles back into the shirt, uses great care to settle it and the distinctive eye.

x

Lisa picks up her bat, but as Higgins winds up she reaches up under her shirt, wipes away a line of perspiration from her bosom and the ball bounces ten inches short of the plate. Templeton stops it in time to glare Tina Larsen into staying on first.

Lisa stretches, flexes all her muscles, and when set up, slowly alternates moving her left and right shoulders forward and back - and the ball sails in almost level with her chin.

Higgins gets ready again and Lisa lowers her bat and starts fiddling with the elastic waistband of her pink shorts. "DuBOIS!"

"It's too loose!" she calls back loudly enough to be heard beyond the bleachers. "You want it to fall down to my ankles when I run?"

"Why not?" he calls acerbically over the anticipatory cheers, acceding to the inevitable.

"_Because I'm not wearing any panties_!" she yells, but his retort is lost in the roar from the spectators.

Templeton stands up, extends his arm far out to the side and the last two pitches settle the issue. Lisa jogs to first as Larsen advances to second to nearly deafening cheers and Higgins decides DuBois doesn't look at all bad in her jog, particularly since the bra isn't nearly as supportive as it looks.

x

Higgins watches Peggy Uchitel come to the plate and is quite ready for payback for her heckling of every man on the team, including himself. Abby may have tried to get her a top sufficiently large to contain her assets, but the material is still strained. When she faces off she immediately raises her hand to halt him, grabs the waistband of her shorts on the left side and gives a hard push.

"_HEY_!" The exclamation is out before he realizes her empty hand had moved and he glowers at her, further annoyed at the grin she gives him. But she immediately begins a sequence of sinuous movements that threaten to ruin his timing.

She connects with his first pitch, a ground ball past his right side, but when he turns he sees Jimmy Palmer's attention is on Tina Larsen, and when she dashes away he realizes where the ball is going. It's passing him and he turns and makes a headlong dive, lands atop it, but by the time he's on his knees to throw to third, to short backing him up, to stop Uchitel crossing first, all three women are safe; bases loaded, no one out.

x

Gibbs comes in again from center field, signaling as he does for Reznik and Brown to shorten their distance to the diamond.

When he reaches the mound and Templeton joins them, they can see he's not unduly concerned by the women surrounding them.

"Not as bad as it looks," he assures them. "McGee's up; she's a pitcher but can't hit for power, we can possibly force her into a double play. Then Palmer comes back around. She'll tighten up, try to shrink the zone again but she's too smart to bunt this time so be ready for her swing. Between those two you can probably clear this up by picking off one of these three. Uchitel's the slowest on the required semi-annual physicals. If not, I'll move the outfield back out for Shepherd, she hits for pow–"

"What's going on?" Templeton cuts in; his gaze turns Gibbs and Higgins toward the third base dugout from which Abby and Ziva approach. Ziva's in her jeans and green tee shirt she's worn as third base coach, but Gibbs doesn't like the looks on either woman's face.

"Substitution," Abby announces before she reaches them.

"No substitutions," Higgins declares, but receives a 'don't speak for me' look from Gibbs.

"He's right," he maintains, however.

Abby shakes her head. "You didn't say so when you guys took Jean Paulson away from me and made her an umpire."

"That was a medical call."

"And Siobhan's our only pitcher; she has seven more innings to go."

"So have I," Higgins counters.

"Okay, Ziva's our DH; we're playing American vs. National."

The men exchange telling looks; Abby's smart enough to counter every objection they can raise, and might even outrun them on it. "Fine."

"She's out of uniform," DiNozzo cuts in from behind them, having stepped close enough from third to overhear. Abby and Ziva smile, Ziva starts to pull up her tee shirt while Abby reaches for the belt.

Gibbs grabs both their right wrists. "I've heard all I intend to hear about uniforms." The sun is hot enough that he's ready to smack DiNozzo - again - about the shirts / skins deal. "Take your place."

"I have just one question," Ziva says as the men start back to their stations, Gibbs signaling the left and right fielders back out.

"What?" Higgins asks.

"The full count; that is three balls and four strikes, or four balls and three strikes?"

He considers the question. "Yes."

He ascends the mound.

x

Ziva accepts a bat from Janet Levy and takes a right handed position at the plate, gripping the end of the bat right hand over, or rather atop, her left. Templeton pretends not to notice, not about to offer tips with bases loaded and the women leading by two runs in the second, but when Ziva, facing her body straight on to the plate, positions her feet too widely apart and too flat and swings at a curve ball that shifts more than a foot out of reach, and the bat snaps around, he can keep silent no longer.

"Who taught you how to hold a bat?"

"Right hand over left, yes?"

"Waaiiit." He stands up, glancing back at Ducky. "I'm sorry, Ducky, I can't do it. It's worse than shooting a fish in a gallon bucket with a thirty inch cannon."

"I quite agree, Mister Templeton."

Ignoring Higgins' annoyed posture, he shows her how to grip the bat, to align her knuckles, to hold it at her shoulder, to position her body for better balance and swing. Nevertheless, when he's set again, Ziva swings at a ball level with her shins.

"No, no, no, Ziva; you're swinging at Balls."

She looks at him blankly. "I do not understand, of course they are balls."

"I mean they're..." He glances back at Ducky. "This is too painful." Then to Ziva. "Look, keep your eye on the ball, don't swing at anything unless it's between your breasts–"

She lowers the bat. "Are you trying to be–?"

"No! Oh, God, listen: no higher than your breasts, lower than your knees, no closer than or further than the sides of the plate; don't reach, don't choke up."

"All right."

He just hopes she isn't going to go down swinging on Ball 3.

x

She sets up, and is so obviously 'ready' to hit something that Higgins is half-tempted to give her something easy - but only half.

Higgins winds up and fires a textbook screwball that curls a dizzying trajectory – and Ziva's bat connects solidly, sends it screaming high over his head. That's not the only scream, the women surrounding him join in the whooping, cheering and screaming from the crowd, Uchitel unleashing a full-throated Xena war yell as the ball sails over the distant fence with over a foot to spare.

Ziva doesn't join in the noise, takes a more sedate, loping jog around the bases to return to Templeton. "College team, I was scouted for the 'Farm Team' Minors for the Tel Aviv Lightning."

"You played me," he says, peeved as the celebrating women assemble in their dugout.

"The entire game is a playtime ... but you were nice when you did not have to be, which does earn a reward."

She doesn't believe the long, soulful kiss she gives him means as much to him as it would to, say, DiNozzo, but she makes it special before jogging to the dugout.

x

The men, left alone on the field, look about at one another and the third base dugout as the scoreboard is updated: 4 additional runs bring the score on the board to 1 - 7 with no one out in the middle of the second.

A full minute passes and none of the women come out, but remain huddled together in the shade, a kaleidoscope tableau of pink, blue and yellow with a spot of black and white in the middle. Gradually, with little more to do as the moments draw out and out ... and out … the nine men assemble beside the mound, and Ducky and his 'crew' of umpires join them a few moments later.

Jean Paulson is unsure what to do. Ostensively a member of the women's team, even uniformed as such but bumped up to second base Ump, she's half ready to go in but suspects she has to stay out. Fortunately her quandary is resolved as the women finally emerge en masse and approach.

"Guys," Abby says, "we've been talking."

"No kidding."

"DiNozzo."

"Sorry, boss."

"_And_," Abby firmly reclaims the field, "it's hot - _really_ hot–" she says, licking her lips at the crowd of shirtless men, "and it's nearly two, we're an inning and a half in; at this rate it'll be after midnight before we're done, you guys will be lobsters and really cranky on Monday–" she forcibly cuts off the diversions. "Anyhow, everybody's had a shot, how do you guys feel about calling the game?"

"Fine," Gibbs says, more than ready to put a shirt on and call this a day – among other things.

"You mean you're forfeiting?" DiNozzo asks, earning annoyed looks from both teams.

"Get real, DiNozzo," Janet Levy commands, "two home runs, a grand salami and we're _still _up against your one on a lucky fluke?"

Gibbs' RBI triple had been no fluke, but he's not about to mention that with a cool shower in his future.

"Sorry," DiNozzo insists, not ready to leave such lovely competitors, "the team that gives up forfeits. And besides, an inning plus isn't even an official game."

"Knock it off, DiNozzo," DuBois demands. "This whole thing started because _you _said men are better at baseball than women." She points at the scoreboard. "Retract it and we'll forfeit."

"No," Gibbs counters, "_we _forfeit." He steps up, comes virtually none-to-nose with DiNozzo.

Under the stare of those steely eyes barely two inches from his, DiNozzo reluctantly admits: "Women are as good as men at baseball." Higgins, Tim and Jimmy join Gibbs, not as close but close enough. When DiNozzo tries to look away, he finds many other eyes surrounding him. "Women are better at baseball than men."

"We'll accept that," Jennifer says with a magnanimous grin.

"Good," Gibbs concludes. "Now let's get these guys – and girls," he grins at the feminine orbs turned to him, "off the stands, give them the bad news and we can go home."

"Just a sec," Tina Larsen says.

x

"Now what?"

"There _is _a way we can end the game legally and no one has to forfeit."

"We forfeited," Gibbs tells her firmly, caring only about that cool shower soothing his cooking skin.

"But you don't _have _to."

"It's no big deal," Reznik insists.

"The game can be called _if the opposing team has no one who can play_. That's Rule 4.06, subsection A, paragraph 4."

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Agent Larsen," Ducky counters. "That rule reads 'No player shall at any time make contact with the umpire in any manner' and the prescribed penalty is immediate ejection from the …" he sees the eyes of the women who move to surround him. "Oh, dear."

"GET 'IM!"

Ducky is instantly besieged by women peppering his face with kisses. Smaller than most of them, he's lost to view of the men as the women crowd in to take their turns in a complex pattern reminiscent of swarming bees. Thirty seconds into this assault he apparently loses his balance, for he's eased to the grass by the cluster as the standing men watch, somewhat enviously.

x

"Think we should go in after him?" DiNozzo quips after several seconds.

Gibbs carefully considers the constantly changing group as each woman who comes up for air is instantly replaced and yet returns to the huddle as soon as there's room. All the men can see of Ducky are his legs.

"Nope."

x

x

"Think we should save him now?"

The decision is somewhat harder, but eventually Gibbs makes it. "Nope."

x

x

x

DiNozzo is ultimately spared asking again because eventually all the women stand and stay up. Ducky lies upon the grass, arms spread wide. He raises his head. His face is covered from hairline to low neck with several layers, colors, shades and angles of lipstick. He slowly works himself up to prop himself on his left elbow, raises his right hand and, in a wide arc, throws out the entire team.

He collapses flat on his back. No one is particularly concerned, though several suspect it will take hours to wipe the smile from his face.


	6. Epilogue

Epilogue

Michelle Palmer pushes the apartment door open into their living room and Jimmy, following her in, sets down the canvas bag containing their bats, gloves and a half dozen balls. "What a day," he sighs.

"No kidding." All she wants is a shower. She still wears her pink shorts, top and cap, souvenirs of a truly memorable afternoon. She turns back to him, half peeved. "But I never expected you to start a 'fight'."

He grins down at her. "Well, look at how you're dressed, 'slut'."

She walks toward the hall branching off near the front door but halfway to the hall leading to bathroom and bedroom she pauses, turns. "Jimmy?"

"Hmm?'

"Don't call me a slut in public, okay? I don't like it."

"Deal." She reaches for the hem of the pink shirt, peels it up and off her body with a contented sigh. "As long as you're a slut at home."

She considers it, checks her already tanned arms, feels her neck for sensitive spots. She has the protection of some tan already, coming from more than a month of short sleeves, skirts and two weekends in her bikini while Jimmy spends his time underground. Those bikini tops only served to leave her looking now like she has two beacons on her chest.

"I'll think about it," she says as he pulls his tee shirt up and off. "JIMMY!" From the waist up his skin is bright red. "Oh, my Goddess! Does it _hurt_?"

It hadn't – very much – before seeing it but "It does now."

"Hold still, I have some cream." She hurries into the hallway, past the bathroom into the bedroom, hunts in her top bureau drawer and retrieves a plastic bottle. When she returns he's looking over his red skin. "Oh, _honey_, that's terrible."

x

She opens the bottle, squeezes some white cream into her hand and comes up behind him, points him to a chair. "Sit down, hold still." At her first touch on his upper back he hisses through his teeth. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he assures her in a voice filled with lie.

She has no choice but to continue, touching him as softly as she can. "This is my own formula, it'll take the pain away and moisturize too."

"It's working already." She works more cream into his shoulders, covers his back, then she steps in front. He immediately reaches for her breasts.

"_Honey_..."

"You're making me feel good," he says as he gently strokes and squeezes her breasts, lightly tweaks her nipples. "I'm just returning the favor."

His warm - and very experienced - hands do feel so very good so as she works in cream he works in lust. Her nipples trapped between his fingertips are already firm, testifying to her response. Looking down at his lap, she sees he's growing far firmer than her nipples are. "I can't concentrate."

"What's to concentrate?' he asks, his hands firmer as he caresses and massages her breasts, makes her feel very good indeed, as she's sure he can tell because her breathing is turning more to gasps of mounting passion.

x

She finishes, wipes her hands on his already tanned, therefore not burned, forearms. She barely manages this because his ministration is becoming more intense and she leans in, her kiss including plenty of tongue action as he works more intently. His right hand reaches down, slips up the leg of her shorts, seeks her moist center.

"Honey..." Hands on his lubricated shoulders, she gently pushes him back, moves her hips further out of his reach, so he returns attention to both breasts.

"Yes?"

"You..." she sighs.

"Yes?"

He's too distracting, she feels too wet, too excited, so she grabs his hands, pins them between hers. He tries to bend forward, to get his mouth to her left breast but she holds him back.

"… are a hateful, insulting, impotent, cock-sucking _bastard_!" She draws back her hand and smacks him as hard as she can, the crack reverberating off the living room walls.

He's knocked halfway off the chair.

x

"You insulted me, humiliated me, called me a _slut _and a _whore _in front of our friends! You fucking _Bastard_!"

He's barely up in the chair; she switches her grip on his hands and her left hand marks his other cheek just as prominently, the crack like a whip's. She lets go, draws back her right hand. "And you accused me of breaking my vows to magick a _game_!" She swings as hard as she can – but he catches her hand tightly in his, the clap loud and sharp. He looks up and she sees her fate in his eyes.

"_YIPE_!" She yanks away, turns and dashes for the short hallway. He charges after her past the bathroom to the bedroom before he snares her waistband. She laughs gaily as she turns to struggle. He wrestles her toward the bed, sits down and yanks her shorts and panties off in one motion, drags her until she's draped over his knees. He traps her legs between his, her bottom raised but her shriek holds no terror.


End file.
